


The Dark Only Chooses the Ready

by radioqueen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Case Fic, Do Not Archive, Extremely Underage, F/M, Incest, Light Bondage, Parent/Child Incest, Rape to protect victim from worse fate, Ritual Sex, Sex While Slightly Tipsy, Statement Format, Underage Rape/Non-con, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-12 15:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17469914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioqueen/pseuds/radioqueen
Summary: Case #0031402. Statement of “Jane Doe,” regarding sexual abuse she experienced as a child, rituals connected to The People’s Church of the Divine Host, and her ongoing fear of the dark. Statement recorded direct from subject, February 14th, 2003 by Gertrude Robinson, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.





	The Dark Only Chooses the Ready

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerdayghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerdayghost/gifts).



> Thank you to El for betaing for me! Any remaining errors are my own.

ARCHIVIST

There we are, recording properly. Would you like some milk for your tea?

 

WOMAN

No, thank you. Ms. Robinson, I just really wanted to say again how much I appreciate you recording this in your home. And for letting me give it anonymously. I was surprised when you called, but I’ve been wishing I’d said something about this since my last statement. _(Archivist’s note: Case #0020312)_ Spilling my guts to you last time helped me sort out a lot of the pieces in my head, so I’m hoping it does the same thing this time. So just, thank you.

 

ARCHIVIST

My pleasure, dear. (Clears throat.) Case #0031402, statement of “Jane Doe,” regarding sexual abuse she experienced as a child, rituals connected to The People’s Church of the Divine Host, and her ongoing fear of the dark. Does that about sum it up?

 

WOMAN

Yes, I think so.

 

ARCHIVIST

Statement recorded direct from subject, February 14th, 2003 by Gertrude Robinson, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.

 

WOMAN (STATEMENT)

Well, like I mentioned in my previous statement, I’ve never claimed that my father was a saint. But to hear you call it “sexual abuse”— I know that’s technically what it was, but to be honest, no one’s ever called it anything at all before. My former guardian and my many therapists just asked delicate questions, like, “Did your father ever touch you in a way that made you uncomfortable?” I would always look horrified and say, “God, no, of course not!”

I know what they meant and what I should have said, but my response wasn't a lie. I mean, my father did touch me, and much more than that, but it wasn’t the touching that made me uncomfortable. But I’m getting off track. You asked about rituals. And… well, for years I convinced myself this particular incident was a dream, but since talking to you last time, I’m not so sure anymore. 

Since I started being allowed to go to the library or get on the internet alone, I’ve been reading other people’s stories about father-daughter incest, and I’ve never found anything like my experience. The women in those books and articles can always point to things their fathers did to them early on—”grooming,” they call it. Anything from tickling them too long to giving them alcohol or expensive gifts. But I can’t find anything in my memories to indicate that my father harbored a single sexual thought about me until the night he suddenly "sexually abused" me. 

It happened when I was eleven, shortly after I got my first period. I remember because, despite my father buying me books to prepare me ahead of time and then doting on me once my period finally arrived, the physical stress on my body completely wore me out for several weeks afterward. As a result, when my overhead light blew before bed, I decided to change the bulb the next day. After all, my lamp and nightlight were still working… Or, at least, they had been working when I'd fallen asleep that night.

Another consequence of being so tired was that I spent a lot of time in bed during those first few months. I’d snuck several of my mother’s romance novels under my pillow to pass the time, and, naturally, they were the most pornographic thing my eleven-year-old mind had ever read. I remember that this particular night I’d had my first orgasm, because in my mind it's somehow connected to, responsible even, for what happened shortly afterward. I’ve been in therapy long enough to know most therapists would be at pains to assure me that wasn’t the case, but I can’t shake the idea that my first orgasm was what led to my father taking notice of me sexually.

Whatever the case, I woke in total darkness a few hours after falling asleep. My nightlight had burnt out, and when I tried to turn on my bedside lamp, it immediately blew too. I heard something moving in my closet, and I immediately screamed for my father. He burst into my room, checked my closet with his heavy police torch, and then carried me to his bed. I fell asleep with my head against his chest and his bathroom light on, feeling safer than I had in years.

I think it was just before dawn that the growling woke me up. I lay there for a moment to make sure I was fully awake before frantically shaking my father. He tried to turn on his lights, but they blew immediately, and his torch was so weak it barely fell two feet ahead. Despite that, he left it turned on on his nightstand as he began kissing my face and caressing me through my underwear.

I was so surprised I immediately stopped crying in fear, and I think the growling stopped too—although I wonder if perhaps I just stopped paying attention. I knew it was wrong for my father to be touching me there, but I loved and trusted my father completely, and it was the best thing I’d ever felt. So, I’m slightly ashamed to admit, I made absolutely no attempt whatsoever to stop him. Even when he penetrated me with his fingers, I allowed it.

I enjoyed his touch. I even touched him in return. His whole body tensed at first, and he made to remove my hand. But I gave a little whine into his mouth, and he relented. I loved the way he felt under my hand, the way his body responded to my lightest touch. Between his kisses and his fingers, he brought me to orgasm easily—more easily than I myself could at that age—and I quickly fell into a happy, fear-free sleep.

When I woke again, it was light outside. My father said nothing as he made me breakfast, so I stifled my urge to ask him about it. I did take a few moments to bring myself to orgasm again before dressing for school. I was shamefully excited by the memory of what had happened, and I don't think I paid much attention to my studies that day.

After I got home from school, my father had me shower early. When I stepped out of the shower, he was waiting with dinner and a bottle of wine. He let me drink as much as I wanted, which was probably only a glass and a half, but being only eleven, it was no surprise that I fell into a deep sleep right after dinner.

What _was_ a surprise was waking to the sound of a woman’s voice. I remember her saying, “She’s beautiful, Robert,” in that same voice people use to talk about newborn babies. It was dark except for a dozen candles, and I was on a soft sheet on our living room floor. And I was naked. There were several people there, but they were all wearing dark robes.

I tried to jump up, but I found myself bound and gagged with something long, black, and silky. I was terrified, struggling and screaming, until one of the robed figures knelt by me and whispered, “Shh, Julia, it’s me, it’s Dad. I’d never let anyone hurt you. Lie still.” And perhaps it sounds naive, but I did trust my father, so I lay still for him, even though I was trembling violently from fear. The robed figures painted dark strands of cursive writing on me, but I couldn’t read any of it in the dark.

Eventually, they blew out the candles and stepped back. I felt my pulse quicken in the dark, especially when I heard the growling noise from the night before. I heard my father ask if he really had to do this, protesting that I was only a little girl. A voice I thought I possibly recognized as Detective Raynor said, "The Dark only chooses the ready. If she were really 'just a little girl,' we wouldn’t be here.” I had no idea what he meant by that, but it terrified me.

The figures began to chant, which did not help my fear in the slightest. Someone touched my knee, and I started violently until I realized it was my father. He spread my legs and began kissing me at my ankle, working his way up to my inner thigh. I was frightened, but I was even more hormonal and easily aroused, so I immediately gave in to his touch. By the time his mouth finally reached my sex, I was already rather heated and vocal, despite my gag. My father used his mouth and fingers on me until I climaxed in front of that crowd of hooded strangers. Before I could be properly embarrassed by that, he lay on top of me and—well, technically speaking, I suppose he raped me.

From the books I’d read, I’d assumed my first time would hurt. But my father had been very thorough in preparing me, and I was extremely ready for him by the time he finally entered me. It was very romantic, actually—he held my bound hands and pulled the silk rope out of my mouth so he could kiss me.

I don’t remember what the people were chanting, except that it wasn’t in English. I think they might have said one term a few times, enough for me to notice it, but I don't know if I'm remembering it right. It sounded like, erm, "Knee Allison," but I'm sure I didn't hear it quite right.

I do remember my dad saying over and over, “I love you, my precious little girl, please forgive me, I love you." And I remember replying, “I love you too, Dad. It's all right.”

It never struck me as odd that my father apologized profusely the whole time, or even that he cried and vomited and prayed for forgiveness in the kitchen afterward. At the time, I honestly don’t know what I thought. I found the whole thing very erotic, albeit very strange.

When my father woke me the next morning with a giant breakfast and the explanation that I'd looked to be having strange dreams, I was relieved to latch onto that. But a vivid dream doesn’t explain my soreness the following day, nor why my father reluctantly allowed me to climb atop him that night (as well as many other nights until he was arrested). I suppose that’s why I feel strange hearing it called sexual abuse—I always got the impression my father was only going along with it to indulge me, almost as if out of guilt.

That’s it, really. I’ve never told a soul until now. I don’t know why, exactly. My father told me before the trial that he hoped I “felt free to tell the therapist anything and everything.” He was already facing life in prison, and my guardian was fiercely protective of my privacy, so it probably wouldn’t have changed anything if I had told. But my father and I have always been private people, and it was such an intensely private thing between us that I couldn’t bear the idea of anyone else knowing.  It feels good to say it now, though. (Sighs.)

 

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends. Are you all right?

 

WOMAN

Yes, thanks. You won’t tell anyone, right? I really don’t want more people gawking at me for anything else.

 

ARCHIVIST

No… if it’s all right with you, I think I’ll keep this one locked away here at my home.

 

WOMAN

That would be lovely. Thank you, Ms. Robinson. (Chair creaks.)

 

ARCHIVIST

Oh, one more thing. Do you remember anything about the ritual? (Static crackles.) Any phrases you might have remembered, even though they weren’t in English? Any other practices?

 

WOMAN

I… no, I don’t think I do. I’m really sorry. I was groggy from the wine, and I was mostly focused on my dad.

 

ARCHIVIST

Never mind, then, dear. You’ve given me plenty as it is. Have a good night.

 

WOMAN

You too. Goodbye. (Door creaks and latches.)

 

ARCHIVIST

Well, that was… illuminating, if you’ll pardon the pun. I’d hoped for something about The Dark’s grand-scheme ritual, but it’s possible this may connect to it in some way. I’ll have to do more research.

In any case, I’m relieved that if The People’s Church of the Divine Host must engage in ritualistic child abuse, they do so in a decidedly less gruesome manner than The Cult of the Lightless Flame or that unnamed group of worshipers of The End in ancient Egypt. (Shudders.) If I never had to dream about those two statements again… but I digress.

Like the victim, I suspect this statement was not a dream at all, given her ongoing trauma and targeting by The People’s Church of the Divine Host. This ritual reminds me of Malawian sexual cleansing rituals, although I have no indication Robert Montauk ever performed the role analogous to that of ‘hyena’ outside this one incident. Due to the high-profile nature of this case and its potential relevance to The Dark’s ritual, I’m going to keep this one under lock and key in my apartment. Recording ends.


End file.
